Who Are You, Really?
by Individually Packaged
Summary: Marik was ready to close up for the night. He'd just put away the herbs, closed up the ointment jars, even cleaned up the floors—when the boy showed up. Citronshipping. Complete!


**A/N:** This is definitely one of my fluffier Citronshipping stories. You'll practically roll in fluffiness by the end.

Title and idea based on Mikky Ekko's song "Who Are You, Really?" which is from the Teen Wolf soundtrack and is awesome.

Thanks to ChaosRocket for the beta!

* * *

**Who Are You, Really?**

Marik was ready to close up for the night. He'd just put away the herbs, closed up the ointment jars, even cleaned up the floors—when the boy showed up.

Although, _showed up_ didn't quite describe it. Barged in. Crashed through the door. Anyway, it wasn't very graceful, and Marik almost jumped through the ceiling at the bloodied sight of him.

"Hello." Marik blinked. "Are you looking for my father? We're closed now, but I'm sure we can—"

The boy held up a hand, cutting Marik off. "Shut," he said heavily, "the hell up."

He tried to continue, but a cough broke his words. Marik approached him, taking in the sight of cuts and bruises along both arms and legs. His mud-streaked body was bare except for a piece of dark cloth around his waist. Marik tried not to let his gaze linger.

"You're clearly not in any condition to be bossy," Marik said, pointing at the cot in the corner of the room. "Sit down."

The boy gave him a watery glare. He clearly needed medical help, but was too stubborn to ask for it. Without waiting for him to respond, Marik stalked over and hauled him to the cot.

"Let me go." He yanked his arm out of Marik's grip. "I'm not looking for your father or anyone else."

His will was strong, but he must have spent it all on yelling at Marik, because he suddenly swayed on his feet, and tumbled backward into the bed.

Marik sighed, wondering how he'd upset the gods today to get such a resistant patient. One who apparently didn't even realize he'd barged into a healer's chamber. Marik sat next to him on the cot and began making a poultice. He just hoped the boy had a payment for his efforts. Otherwise, it would be wasted time and herbs, and his father would be upset if he heard about it.

As he worked, Marik glanced at the sleeping boy.

He was young, perhaps Marik's age. His skin was dark and dry, peeling from too much sun exposure, and there wasn't an arm nor a leg that didn't sport white scars. His big lips were cracked and bleeding, and he had a white scar on his face. The cloth hung low on his hips and Marik had to look away again.

Despite the boy's rugged exterior, he had two golden bracelets on his arms and two on his ankles. He must have been from a rich family, then. That only made Marik wonder why he was in such an awful state.

Finally, as he finished making the poultice, the boy's eyes flashed open.

"Awake again," Marik said. "Good. You're just in time for the best part."

He tried to lean upward, but the pain must have been too great, because he gasped and dropped back onto the cot.

"Best part?" he said slowly.

"The herbs will sting," Marik explained, showing him the poultice.

The boy scoffed, but he didn't refuse help this time. Marik daubed a cut on his arm with the poultice. He winced, but maintained his composure. What an unnecessary show of bravado, Marik thought. Whenever he applied these herbs on other patients, they howled in pain.

"So if you're not looking for my father, who _are _you looking for? It's the middle of the night."

The boy glanced away. "I told you. No one."

"Why are you here, then?"

The boy muttered something, still not catching Marik's eye.

"What was that?"

"I said I was lost."

The boy seemed to suddenly find a spot on the floor very fascinating.

Marik smiled. "Lost? You don't look like you're from around the palace. What's your name?"

The boy crossed his arms, as if drawing a battle line, and refused to answer.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," Marik said, and then wondered if that came out sounding coy.

He scoffed. "Why the hell should I care who you are?"

"You barged into a healer's room and won't even introduce yourself? I bet you won't pay me either."

"Why should I? I didn't ask for your help."

That was true, and Marik wasn't sure why he'd bothered to help him anyway. Part of him suggested he just wanted more medical practice. He was an apprentice, after all, and needed all the tutelage he could get. But another part of him was curious. He grabbed the boy's wrist to smear the herb paste across a bad gash on his forearm. His healer's instincts overrode the anger he felt at being scorned, and his touch became soothing. He ran his fingers gently across the cut.

When he looked up, the boy was staring right at him. His eyes were the color of the Nile's shores, and his hair like the reeds that grew across the river in thickets. Perhaps Marik was mistaken to think of him as a boy. He was a young man, really. Probably older than Marik.

"Bakura," he said suddenly.

"What?" Marik was so startled that he dropped his wrist.

"My name." He smirked as if he'd somehow gotten the upper hand. "And now you owe me yours."

"Marik," he replied. "And don't think that we're even now. These herbs aren't cheap so I expect a better payment than your name."

"A name is a powerful thing. You could call on demons and curse me now, if you wanted."

Marik smiled. "Why would I heal you if I just wanted to curse you?"

"Why would you heal me at all?" Bakura asked. A curious gleam was in his eyes but Marik thought it was perhaps just the candlelight.

"What can I say?" Marik said. "I can't turn away strays."

Bakura laughed, and for a moment, Marik was overwhelmed by the sound. He thought that maybe he'd kept his hand on Bakura's arm for too long, and he immediately let go, looking for something to say.

"How did you manage to get hurt?"

Bakura stopped laughing. He caught Marik's eye and said, "I was climbing through the palace walls, and I fell."

Marik's eyebrows rose. The lie was so evident that it practically dripped out of Bakura's mouth.

"That's an… incredibly foolish thing to do, especially this late at night. Why were you climbing through the palace walls?"

Bakura gave him a tight smile. "You know, I'd rather keep those details between me and the walls."

Marik rolled his eyes. What a compulsive liar. But Marik was nothing if not persistent. And he would find out what this troublemaker could possibly be doing in the palace to get himself hurt this badly.

Sometime later, Bakura's wounds were entirely bandaged, and Marik ran out of cuts to heal. Impossibly so.

"I'll wash out the basin and then do another check on your cuts," Marik said. "Stay here."

He headed outside with a pot of water to scrub the basin. It had grown chilly, but the night breeze was soothing. In the sky, the fat, white moon grinned down at him and he couldn't help but grin back.

When he returned to the chambers, the cot was empty.

Marik frowned, looking around the small room. It was lined with shelves, filled to the edge with remedies and spell scrolls, talismans, and tools. Despite the fullness of the room, there was no nook to hide in. Bakura must have stolen out of the chamber while Marik was out, and somehow, it pained Marik to realize this. No payment, no goodbye. No chance to properly ask who he was and where he'd come from.

As Marik neared the cot, something caught his eye—a bracelet. One of the golden trinkets from Bakura's wrists. Marik slipped the bracelet across his wrist, admiring how well it fit him.

At least he'd gotten his payment after all.

* * *

The next time Marik met Bakura, the boy had a bloody nose, two giant cuts across his forehead, and a bruised rib.

"Holy Ra, and every other god under the sun," Marik said as soon as Bakura entered the chamber, noting that at least this time his entrance was deliberate. "Did you get into a fight with a rhinoceros? You look like you're bleeding even more than last time."

Bakura smirked at him, which must have been painful with all the gashes on his face.

"Thanks. I didn't know you were keeping track."

"You're not allowed to speak. Sit. Don't move. Your ribs look terrible."

"Normally, I would be opposed to being bossed around like this, but I appreciate the concern." Bakura did as told, carefully lying down to avoid his bruised side. "I should have employed you years ago."

"You've been climbing palace walls for years?" Marik asked.

That same tight-lipped smile graced Bakura's face. "No, but for our purposes, let's say that's the case."

Marik sat on the cot beside Bakura, leaning forward to test his ribs, finding them sore and tender.

"So what exactly do you do, then? How do you manage to get hurt this badly?"

"Oh, I think I'll just let your imagination run wild. What do _you_ think I do?"

"I think you hide out in lion dens just to see what will happen."

"It's actually snake dens."

Marik gave him an icy look. "I'm serious. If you're going to become a regular patient of mine, I'll need to know how you get injured."

Bakura pressed a piece of gauze against his nose, staunching the blood flow. "Does coming in two times make me a regular patient now?"

"Well no, but I can't understand why you're avoiding my questions. Who are you, really? What do you do?"

Bakura glanced up at the ceiling, pursing his lips, before he flashed Marik a big smile. "If I give you two bracelets this time instead of one, will you drop the questions?"

Marik rolled his eyes. "That's so presumptuous of you to think that a bracelet for my services is enough—"

"Isn't it? You could just trade it for something else. The gold is expensive."

Marik said nothing. It was hard to explain why he felt so attached to the bracelet but he couldn't consider trading it. He'd worn it every day since he'd last seen Bakura. The gold fit snugly on him, and whenever he looked at it, the bracelet winked back.

But he couldn't say this to Bakura. Instead, he pressed a poultice to his arm.

"It does look expensive. I wondered if you'd stolen it from a high priest. Or maybe your family is very rich."

Bakura gave him a long look, as though he wanted to tell him the truth but wasn't sure it would be palatable.

"Neither," he said dryly. "But I'll give you another one for today's services."

Marik hid a small smile. And then he was lost in his healing work. In an hour's time, he had bandaged the worst of Bakura's wounds, and murmured a prayer to Sekhmet to mend Bakura's damaged rib. At last, he moved to the cosmetic wounds, the shallow cuts on Bakura's face. He ripped some more fabric into pieces, dipped it in water, and brought it toward the cuts.

Suddenly, he felt incredibly conscious of the fact that he had to touch Bakura's face. This normally didn't bother him with other patients, but something quivered in his stomach as he leaned forward. Pink rivulets flowed down his chin as Marik wiped off the blood, and he pressed a hand against Bakura's cheek to stop the flow. At that, Bakura's eyes snapped to Marik's. Again, Marik was struck by how bright they were. His mouth dried. When he licked his bottom lip to wet it, he caught Bakura's gaze drift to Marik's mouth.

Marik cleared his throat.

"I think… I think you've got the rest on your own. The cuts just need some time to heal. I can give you a poultice to put on them nightly so that they close up faster—"

Bakura broke into a laugh.

"Trying to get rid of me? I was actually enjoying myself, but I guess I shouldn't overstay my visit."

Marik gave a shaky laugh. "Yes, well, you can't suppose you're my _only_ patient."

"And yet I don't see anyone else here."

"These are abnormal hours."

"Of course, where were my manners, barging in here at two o'clock in the afternoon."

Marik flushed, smiling. "You're incorrigible."

"And you're a bad liar."

"If you hang around me long enough, I doubt you'd say that."

Bakura leaned forward, so that their thighs touched and Marik smelled the earthy scent of Bakura's skin.

"Then I guess I'll have to visit more often."

And then he was gone.

Marik sank back into the cot after Bakura left, regaining his breath, absently running his fingers across the new bracelet Bakura had given him.

* * *

"Another attack. At this rate, every king will have his fortune strewn across the whole Nile. It's despicable."

Marik glanced at his sister, who barged into the kitchen looking like a flurry of garments.

His father looked up. "Again? There was an attack just last week. There was no lead from the man you had on trial?"

"He was the wrong one," Isis said, sitting down at the table. "And he didn't have any information on the Thief King. It's been three years since the raids began, and we are no closer to finding him."

Marik grinned. He'd heard many things about the Thief King since the raids started. Rumors of the way he stole into tombs at night and made off with fortunes. Of the way he rode into the sunrise on a brute of a horse and flashed a smirk at anyone that dared to stop him. If Marik felt a shiver down his spine at that thought, he hid it very well.

"He's quite a legendary thief. But he wears a blood-red cloak, doesn't he?" Marik asked. "It shouldn't be hard to find a man in such bright clothes."

Isis drank from a copper goblet, slamming it on the table. "Yes, and it's still been impossible to track him."

She took a deep breath. Isis had been training for priestess-hood for several years now, calming her mind and her spirit, though the Thief King's perpetual escapes didn't cease to incense her. She had vowed to catch him one day by reading each criminal's past with the power of her Millennium Necklace.

"Enough about that," Isis said, and smiled at Marik. "How is the healing practice, little brother? Is it everything you imagined it would be?"

With their father within earshot, Marik wasn't sure how much he could reveal.

"It's been wonderful. I've been getting a few patients every day."

"Any regulars yet?" his father asked.

"None yet." Marik's hand went to the bracelets at his wrist, bridging the smooth gold. "But I think there's at least one that might come back."

"That's great to hear, Marik," Isis said. "It sounds like you're becoming established here. I think the Ishtar name will become a legacy among Luxor healers with you leading the practice."

She smiled at them, but neither Marik nor his father returned the sentiment. Without looking his way, Marik knew they were thinking the same thing.

Isis frowned. "What's wrong? Did I say something disagreeable?"

Their father rose from the table. His chair scraped against the wood as he slammed his cup down. "No, Isis. It's not you that's being disagreeable."

He gave Marik a tired look and retired to the bedroom.

Isis turned toward Marik. "Have I missed something?"

Marik squirmed in his seat. Now he knew how criminals felt when faced with Isis' no-nonsense look.

"It's nothing," he began. "Nothing concrete yet. I've been looking into exotic herbs for my poultices and… well, one idea led to another, and I asked Father if I could travel for my practice."

"Travel?" Isis looked as if she'd misheard him. "Where would you go?"

"I haven't decided yet," Marik admitted. "But I want to see other lands. I want to take my practice to new places and find new ways to heal."

His hand tightened on the bracelets. The wooden table before him was gone, replaced with visions of majestic landscapes and fields of herbs. He had traveled outside of Luxor with his father when he was younger to find precious herbs. Those infrequent trips had kindled something within Marik that now couldn't be trampled.

"Father won't even let me consider it," he finished. "He wants the family practice to stay in Luxor. For the legacy, as you said."

He expected Isis to yell at him. Of course he should stay here. Of course he should keep the family name close to Luxor. How could he even think of asking such a thing?

Instead, Isis placed her hand over Marik's.

"Brother," she began, and Marik didn't miss the switch from _little brother_ to just _brother_. "You are part of the Ishtar family, it's true. You've learned all that you know from Father. You began your practice because he taught you all he knows about healing."

Marik felt his heart sink.

"However," she continued. "You have a beautiful dream. And that dream is worth more than a legacy that stays in Luxor."

The corner of Marik's mouth quirked upward. He squeezed Isis' hand in gratitude, which Isis returned with a bright smile. Finally, she unraveled her hand from his and stood from the table.

"And speaking of beautiful things, those are beautiful bracelets you're wearing. I'm happy to see you're already getting a handsome income from your practice."

Marik laughed. If only she knew exactly how he'd acquired those bracelets. He had a feeling she would be less approving.

* * *

"So why isn't a pretty thing like you married yet?"

Marik dropped the bowl he'd been mixing. It fell on his feet and he cussed loudly before rounding on Bakura.

"That is _none_ of your business." He bent down to clean up the mess. "I can't believe you'd even ask that."

"Ah, I see," Bakura said. He lay on the cot watching Marik fidget around. "You haven't found the right girl yet."

"I haven't found the right _person_," Marik grumbled.

Bakura's eyebrow curved up. "What does your perfect _person_ look like, then?"

"Dark-haired," Marik said instantly, giving Bakura a pointed look. "Younger than me. And obedient. Not one of those mouthy types that orders me around."

Bakura laughed. "You realize you've just described every quality that is opposite to mine?"

Marik smiled. "At least now you know your prospects."

"Well, if you'd like to know—"

"I wouldn't."

"The perfect person for me has bright colored hair. Blond. White. Whatever you want to call it." Bakura ticked each quality off his fingers. "Unusual eyes. Something exotic. And very bossy. I won't listen to the demands, but I think it'll spice things up."

"You're such a pig."

Bakura looked wounded. "That's harsh, Marik. I'm really trying here."

Marik looked away, biting his bottom lip. He forced himself to focus on preparing a new mixing bowl. Bakura had come in an hour ago with a rolled ankle and the usual heap of cuts and bruises. Marik had asked if he'd tried to scale a wall and then took a mud bath. Bakura, of course, politely refrained from answering.

"Where did you find these herbs, anyway?" Marik asked as he worked in several herbs Bakura had brought. "I haven't seen coriander anywhere near the palace."

"It's around," he said vaguely.

Marik looked skeptical. "You're lying to me again."

Bakura gave him a feigned look of horror. "I would never. What do you take me for?"

"I take you for a rogue, if you really want to know. I'm starting to think your occupation is not something I would approve of."

"I'm not a hit man, if that's what you're wondering."

Marik gave him an appraising look. "Reassuring, but there are occupations out there worse than being a hit man."

Bakura smiled. "I'll grant you that."

"Alright, then at least answer me this—is what you do morally better or worse than what the Thief King does?"

Bakura looked like he'd just swallowed a fishbone and it was now lodged firmly in his throat.

"The Thief King?" he asked. "What do you know about the Thief King?"

"I know he robs tombs and marketplaces. He's escaped trial for years, even though he rides in full view of the town in a red cloak."

"You've seen him, then?" Bakura gave him an intent look.

"No," Marik said. "But I want to see him one day."

Bakura's eyebrows shot up. "Why?"

Marik blushed. "I don't know. I just… think it would interesting to meet someone so notorious."

"Sounds like you're already fond of him," Bakura teased.

Marik laughed without denying it. They fell silent as Marik busied himself with placing the new poultice on Bakura's cuts. He winced as Marik wiped away the dried blood and soothed the cuts with ointments. Bakura's skin was warm to the touch, and when Marik leaned closer to apply the medicine, he felt Bakura's breath on his face.

They locked gazes, and Marik forgot to breathe. The poultice fell out of his grip and lay forgotten on the cot as he admired every detail of Bakura's face for what seemed like the thousandth time. His eyes glimmered like the Nile in bright sunlight. Without precursor, Marik leaned forward to touch the right side of Bakura's face.

"How did you get that scar?" he asked.

Bakura's gaze didn't waver.

"By doing something dangerous."

"How dangerous?" Marik scolded himself for sounding out of breath.

Bakura wound a hand at the nape of Marik's neck, bringing them closer. "Not as dangerous as this."

And when Bakura pressed his lips to Marik's forehead, Marik finally breathed in deeply, like a drowning man finding solace. Bakura smelled like the desert, like the Nile, like the whole world, as if he had traversed it backward and forward. As if his whole life's intent was to travel across Egypt, discover all its wonders, and bring its scent back to Marik.

He smiled, and Bakura's lips ghosted across his face until he found Marik's lips.

A voice rumbled outside the chamber.

"Marik, do you happen to have any caraway or acacia? I have a patient—"

Marik's eyes snapped open and he shared a split-second look of horror with Bakura. His father kept his own healing practice in a different chamber of the house, but he sometimes came by to borrow things from Marik's storage. Without question, if he saw Bakura, he'd ask about the patient, his whereabouts, and how he'd gotten hurt. All things that Marik couldn't answer.

In a burst of speed, Marik grabbed the blanket off the cot and draped it across Bakura's body, sitting back on his legs to hide them.

"Stay absolutely still."

His father barged in without a second to spare.

"—with really terrible digestive problems."

Marik replied, "Caraway? Yes, I have some in the pantry here. Just look for the little jar on the third shelf."

He stayed absolutely rooted to the bed, hoping his father wouldn't question the suspicious way he sat there without doing anything or without bothering to help him find the caraway seeds. His father rummaged through the pantry until he found them, while Marik tried not to burst out laughing when he felt Bakura's feet kick him in the ass.

His father paused stiffly before leaving the room.

"Marik, I just wanted to say that… it's not that I don't admire what you want to do."

Marik instantly straightened up. "What I want to do?"

"Your little goal—wanting to travel for the practice. I understand you had some inspiration when we went abroad. But it's worthless to consider it. Our entire clan has been in Luxor for years. Uprooting it and bringing the practice outside this palace will destroy everything we've worked so hard to build."

A sour feeling settled at the pit of Marik's stomach.

"I understand, Father. I will not bother you with such requests in the future."

His father momentarily looked apologetic, but the emotion quickly left his face. He frowned, suddenly giving him a strange look, and Marik wondered if he'd seen Bakura's head move under the blanket.

"Marik, what's that?"

Marik's jaw clenched, and he tried to formulate something that might pass for an explanation.

"What are you referring to, exactly?"

"That," his father pointed at his wrist. "The bracelet on your hand with the hawk symbol on it."

He breathed a little easier. "The bracelet? That's something I got as payment from a patient. Is there something wrong with it?"

"It's nothing," his father replied, but he still looked concerned. "Just a little strange that you'd get that as payment."

"Why?"

"That's the symbol of an old clan that lived at the palace centuries ago. It's the gold of an old vizier, one who no doubt has been dead for decades."

He heard the unspoken implication: gold buried with a vizier decades ago would not be hanging off Marik's wrist today.

Marik's eyes widened. "How unusual."

His father nodded, and turned toward the door. "Just be careful when accepting your payments, Marik."

With that, he left. Marik felt no better now that he was gone. Bakura shifted beneath him, and the moment they'd just shared seemed far away.

"What was that all about?" Bakura asked, unraveling the blanket.

Bakura's hair was mussed and frankly, if his father's words weren't still ringing in his ears, Marik would leap across the cot and kiss him.

Instead, Marik rounded on him. "I should ask you the same thing. Why are you giving me gold bracelets that should have been buried decades ago? Where are you getting them?"

Bakura recoiled and stood up sharply.

"That's none of your business. Why do you care?"

"Did you not just hear my father?" Marik stood up to properly face Bakura.

"Yes, I heard the nonsense you just _take_ from him. Who is he to deny your aspiration—one which, by the way, I didn't even know you had? To be honest, I thought you were more free-thinking than that."

"Stop changing the subject," Marik replied. "Why won't you ever answer my questions? I want to know how you got _this_. And if you won't answer, I won't take it as payment."

With that, he took the bracelet from his wrist and dropped it at Bakura's feet.

Bakura gave him a long look. It was the same look that said he wanted to tell Marik everything, but was too scared.

"I don't owe you an explanation."

He left without a backward glance.

It was only sometime later that Marik scooped the bracelet from the ground and wrapped it around his wrist again.

* * *

Two weeks passed, and Bakura didn't reappear.

Marik was angry. He deserved an explanation; he deserved to know if he was somehow being involved in criminal activities. Or if he was somehow encouraging them by treating Bakura, and letting him continue those activities. He worked himself into a frenzy, imagining all the possible conversations he wanted to have with Bakura, all the arguments that would finally lead to him understanding what Bakura did. More than anything, he wanted to know where Bakura spent his time, so he could march over there and yell at him in person.

And then, after those two weeks, he imagined other things. The lingering moment before his father barged in was still a tingle against his lips. Now he knew that Bakura was interested; he hadn't just been joking around. That, jumbled with his anger, was enough to make him growl in frustration and snap at all his patients.

One day, Marik went into town to buy a few new pots and ingredients for his practice. He was lost in thought when something grabbed him as he traversed the palace.

"Wha—"

"Shhh. Quiet, in case the guards hear you."

Marik blinked when he realized he'd been wedged into a nook between two palace columns. Bakura gripped his arm, and in the twilight, his grey eyes shone like a cat's.

"Bakura," Marik said without thinking, and his stomach lurched. They stood close inside the nook.

"Marik." He looked like he had a whole speech prepared, and was about to launch into it when the bracelet on Marik's wrist caught his eye.

"You're still wearing it," he said instead.

Marik's face heated. "And what about it? Just because you were a complete asshole last time I saw you, doesn't mean that I am." He didn't want to dwell on the bracelet. He didn't want Bakura to see the same meaning Marik saw in it. "How did you even find me? Have you been stalking me?"

"No, I just thought you'd come out to the marketplace at some point—" He broke off before he could incriminate himself further. If Marik wasn't so angry, he would've paused to appreciate Bakura's dedication to check the marketplace for his presence. "Anyway, I brought you something."

"If it's another bracelet from a dead official, I'm leaving right now."

Bakura shoved the parcel into his hands, and Marik had no choice but to take it. The package was small, wrapped clumsily in fraying cloth. When he unwrapped it, he found several small potted plants. They must have been dug up recently because the dirt was still clinging loosely to the plants.

"Coriander," Marik marveled. Just like that, the anger left him.

"It's the same herb you used last time. You wanted to know where I got it, so I thought I'd bring it to you."

Marik was too speechless to respond, which only made Bakura continue talking, as if he were nervous that Marik somehow didn't like the gift.

"You can grow it in your chamber. It takes very well to being replanted and grows quickly—"

"Thank you," Marik finally spared him. "I like it."

Bakura looked visibly less tense.

"But I'm still angry with you."

Bakura tensed up again.

"A little bit less now that you gave me an herb I've spent a lot of time looking for, but still angry." And Marik couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face.

Bakura smiled back. "Maybe if I bring you more herbs, you won't be?"

"That would be a powerful way to persuade me, yes," Marik said and Bakura laughed. As they stood in the narrow space between columns, Marik couldn't help but be drawn closer. Bakura's laughter, the bright gleam in his eyes, the way his hair burst into all directions; the fact that he still never wore anything to cover his chest made Marik long to run his hands across it. As he looked, he saw that the severe cuts from a few weeks ago had completely healed. He reached out and ran his fingers across one of the small, fading scars. Bakura took a stilted breath.

"These cuts healed very well," Marik said, and suddenly he felt jealous for no reason at all. "Did you find another healer after you ran out last time?"

"No," Bakura said, placing his hand directly on Marik's. "I learned a few tricks from a great apprentice."

The sudden knot of jealousy unwound again, and Marik smiled. Bakura's fingers traced little circles on Marik's hand that frankly made it hard to think of anything else to say. Bakura drew closer, giving him an unwavering look. Marik wondered what those hands would feel like on his bare skin, what that mouth would feel like on… and as soon as Marik's thoughts drifted in that direction, he bit his bottom lip and took his hand out of Bakura's.

"It's late," he said. "My family will wonder what's taking me so long at the market."

Bakura's smile didn't wane. He knew Marik wasn't denying him, merely delaying. If Marik was honest with himself, he needed time. The realization that he still knew next to nothing about Bakura wasn't a pleasant one, and he couldn't progress whatever this was without at least acknowledging he wasn't ready.

"Wouldn't want them to think you were kidnapped or something," Bakura supplied.

"By a hit man, no less."

Bakura laughed, and it pained Marik to leave.

"I guess I'll see you—" Marik paused, because the next time he'd see Bakura would likely be in his healer's chamber. And what kind of relationship did they have that he could only see Bakura when he was hurt?

"Later," Bakura finished for him, and he seemed to pick up on Marik's train of thought.

"Be careful." Even though Marik had no idea what Bakura did, he knew it wasn't anything mundane like sifting flour. The thought that he could get killed any day and Marik wouldn't even know it was a sobering one.

Bakura raised his hand to Marik's cheek, as if he could pluck Marik's thoughts right out of his head.

Without another word, he turned out of the column nook, and left.

* * *

A few weeks later Bakura barged into Marik's chamber again. Marik turned toward the door, smiling, when the sight of Bakura knocked the breath out of him.

"Holy Ra," he breathed.

Bakura's chest was drenched in blood, stemming from a cut straight from his collarbone down to his navel. He was close to fainting, holding himself up by a bloodied hand on the doorframe.

"Oh gods," Marik said again, and rushed toward him. Bakura leaned his entire weight on Marik and the only thing he smelled like was blood. Just suffocating, coppery blood. Marik's hands slipped across Bakura's shoulders as he led him towards the cot.

"Stay still. Just don't faint. I need you to stay awake."

"Fuck," Bakura whispered. His breath was shallow. Marik needed to think through this quickly; he needed to stay focused, but it was all he could do not to break down.

He washed the wound first, grimacing as the blood flowed freely. He needed to stitch it, but Bakura whimpered every time Marik touched him. After he got the wound as clean as it could be, Marik prepared the needle and thread, and prayed to Sekhmet that he did this right.

"Bakura, look at me," he ordered.

Bakura's eyes snapped to Marik's. His whimper tapered off as Marik nodded back.

"Good, now don't look anywhere else. I need you to look at me."

As he set to work, he felt Bakura's eyes on him. Even as he pierced the needle through Bakura's skin and listened to the agonizing groans, he knew Bakura's gaze didn't stray. He worked like this for what felt like all night. To Bakura, it must have felt like eternity. Finally, he had the entire cut closed up, and washed the wound again. He mixed a poultice and slowly worked it over Bakura's chest.

"Thanks," Bakura said quietly, still looking at Marik.

Marik paused. "No need to thank me. I would have done this for you anyway, no questions asked."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Marik answered. He wasn't ready to tell Bakura yet. He couldn't say it to himself yet, either.

"I don't have any bracelets to give you this time."

"Consider this one on the house," he replied.

Bakura finally closed his eyes. "You're too good to me."

Within minutes, he was fast asleep, and Marik could finally wipe the bravado off his face. He'd been terrified the instant Bakura had walked in. He hadn't even been in this bad of a shape the first time they'd met.

After cleaning up the mess of used gauze and poultices, Marik laid down beside Bakura. The cot was too small to fit them both, but he didn't care. The fear that had knotted his stomach finally tapered off, as he listened to Bakura's easy breath in, easy breath out. Something equally strong, stronger even, replaced the fear, but Marik didn't want to think about it. He just let himself feel the warm emotion. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around Bakura's waist, drawing him closer.

He drifted off without realizing, and awoke again sometime later. It was still pitch black outside when Bakura shifted in his arms.

"Marik?"

Marik was too comfortable to drag himself back to consciousness. Bakura was warm against him. He tightened his grip on Bakura's bare skin.

And then Bakura completely turned in his arms to face him.

"I need to tell you something."

Marik still refused to open to his eyes. "What's that?"

"I'm leaving soon."

Had Marik been more awake, he would've heard the apology in Bakura's voice.

"No," Marik slurred. "Stay the night."

"I'm leaving Luxor."

Marik's eyes snapped open. "What?"

Bakura's gray eyes met Marik's steadily. The clenching fear returned, settling like a snake around his insides.

"Why?"

Bakura winced at the question. "It's not—I can't tell you. Exactly. It's something I need to do abroad."

"It can't wait?" And now Marik felt like he was begging, and he hated himself for trying.

"I've put it off for as long as I could."

And now Marik understood. Bakura would have gone sooner if he could. But something had been keeping him here.

"Why did you stay this long?"

Bakura smiled faintly. "I thought that much was obvious."

Marik's eyes widened. He couldn't mean—but they've only just… And then all the jokes came back, all the times Bakura had stared at him with that coy look, all the times he'd brushed against him, seemingly by accident. Marik thought he'd been merely toying with him.

Marik shut his eyes and tightened his grip on Bakura. "I didn't know."

Bakura's arms came up around Marik's neck and he kissed his forehead, gripping him so tightly Marik worried his wounds would open again.

"If you could come with me—" Bakura started.

Marik took a deep breath, trying to contemplate that suggestion. All the times he'd imagined taking his healing practice abroad, learning new methods, finding new herbs; that prospect alone had been exhilarating before Bakura offered all of that _and_ being with him.

"I can't," Marik finally said. "My father, the practice—I can't."

"I understand."

But understanding still didn't stop Bakura from looking hurt. It pained Marik to know that this was rapidly coming to an end.

"When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow," Bakura said. "The day after at the latest."

Marik wanted to reason with him. What did he possibly have to do abroad, what was his occupation, why couldn't he just stay here? But he knew those questions would be useless, because Bakura would still refuse to tell him. And he couldn't get angry about it now. There was only one reasonable thing to do right now.

Marik leaned in and kissed him.

This time, the kiss was more than a mere brushing of lips. Bakura pressed him closer, opening his mouth as Marik deepened the kiss. His hands slowly worked up Bakura's back, pressing their bodies so close that Marik couldn't think anymore. He caught Bakura's bottom lip between his teeth and softly bit it until Bakura moaned and brought his hands down Marik's lower back. Marik pulled back and brought his mouth to Bakura's neck, where he kissed and bit the tense muscles until Bakura arched into him.

"Gods, where did you learn to do these things?" Bakura breathed.

Marik smirked, because he heard the unspoken question: had he been with someone else before now?

"Nowhere. I've been imagining doing all these things since the first time you walked into my chamber."

Bakura gave him an incredulous look. And the realization must have sparked something in him, because he grabbed both Marik's hands, moved to straddle Marik's hips, and kissed him hard, pinning Marik's hands into the cot above his head.

"You should've done them sooner, then," he said.

Marik couldn't have agreed more.

* * *

Bakura left early the next morning. Marik checked his wounds one last time, laughing because he'd given him far more bruises throughout the night than he'd come in with, and after one more kiss, Bakura left.

Marik didn't know what to do with himself. He'd gotten next to no sleep the previous night, but he was high-strung with nervous energy. A patient came in during lunchtime, and he kept busy for a few hours. Then, there was nothing left to do.

He sat down on the cot and wondered if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life.

It was the choice of making his father happy, or making himself happy. He didn't want to be selfish. But his sister didn't disagree with his plan. She thought it was beautiful. She thought the Ishtar name deserved to be strewn across the desert, across the tributaries and delta of the Nile. But, despite all that, hadn't his father been the one who taught him all he knew about healing? And wouldn't it be the most selfish act of all to use that knowledge without his father's approval?

Once Marik had reached full-circle with that argument, he stood up angrily. He crossed the room, mindlessly looking through his medicine storage, as though it would give him answers. He spotted the little pots of coriander Bakura had given him what seemed like ages ago. Coriander herbs soothed pain, muscle stiffness, and inflammation. They were one of the most common herbs used in the medicinal practice, but they didn't grow wild in Egypt. There weren't many places in Luxor he'd found the herb when going out with his father to look for them. There was a place, outside the palace walls, he once remembered finding it. It was near an abandoned village—

Before he could continue that train of thought, his door flew open. He turned, hoping it was who it thought it would be.

"Marik," the voice started.

It was his sister, Isis.

"It's almost dinner time. Are you busy? Do you want to eat here, or with us?"

And suddenly, as though he'd known it all along, Marik's mind was made up. It was as if her presence alone was all it took to seal his decision.

"Sister, I won't be having dinner with you."

Isis took in the distracted look on his face. "Alright, I'll leave you a plate, then."

Marik shook his head, smiling.

"Isis, I'm leaving."

Her eyes widened, under no impression that Marik meant he was doing something mundane, like going to the market. She crossed the room, her face struggling with the right emotion to display. When she reached Marik, she wrapped both arms around him.

"You've made up your mind, then, brother?"

Marik breathed in deeply. "I think so."

"Will you write to us?"

"Yes. Will you tell father? I need to be somewhere right now."

She nodded, and the scent of her clean priestess gown and the castor oil on her skin made him melancholy. He would miss this. But he would miss Bakura far more.

He stepped out of the embrace. After saying their goodbyes, he packed a small bag, careful with the potted coriander, and gave the golden bracelets a brief touch for good luck before he left.

Marik took a horse from the stable, hoping his father wouldn't be too angry. But all thoughts of his father were out of mind as soon as he mounted the horse. He rode with the warm wind on his face, the sunset at his back and the full moon beckoning him forward. He remembered the route as clearly as if it were years ago, when he'd first stumbled onto that patch of coriander, so far from the city limits. But if Bakura was truly what Marik suspected he was, he wasn't from the palace. He was far outside its grasp.

The sun had almost set by the time he dropped into the grass, near the Nile bank. In the distance, he spotted jagged rock hills, where he knew the abandoned village lay. In the vicinity, the coriander herbs grew, their white flowers lit up by the rising moon. His eyes squinted, as he spotted something else nearby. It looked like the mouth of a cove, sinking into the ground, far from the reaches of the Nile.

Marik tied his horse to a palm near the river, and sat in the grass, breathing in the earthy scent he'd grown so accustomed to smelling. A flash of fear reminded him that Bakura could be gone already. He just hoped he'd waited.

Time passed as the sky darkened, and the wind grew colder. Marik touched the horse's mane, warming his fingers as he stroked its back.

And then he saw something in the distance.

It was just a speck, moving determinately toward the bank. Something blew in the wind behind it, like a dark banner. When it grew closer, Marik's heart lifted. It was a man on a horse. The moonlight caught the windblown white hair, giving him a luminescent halo.

As he neared, the dark banner became clear. It was a blood-red cloak, strewn in all directions by the wind. Something nagged at Marik, something that was obvious, but he was too elated to give it much thought.

"Bakura," he said, once the horse had reached the bank.

Bakura's face split into a grin as he slowed the horse. "Marik, what are you doing here?"

"I changed my mind. I'm coming with you."

Bakura dropped off the horse, and walked toward Marik. "What about your father?"

Marik shook his head. "I won't try to change his mind."

Bakura smirked, but it looked like something still bothered him. "What about me? You still don't know who I am, or what I do. You're making a decision without that knowledge."

"Alright, tell me then. Who are you, Bakura?"

Bakura had a bittersweet look on his face, as though he was finally considering giving in.

"I'm a creature of the night," he said jokingly, approaching Marik.

Marik rolled his eyes. "Doubtful. You sleep as well as anyone."

"I'm an assassin? An infamous hit man?" Bakura's eyes glinted.

"You don't seem the type," Marik laughed, reaching forward to wind his arms around Bakura's neck.

"I'm a legendary thief."

Marik's laughter broke off when he realized what Bakura had just said. And then he looked at Bakura carefully.

How had he not noticed this before? The stolen bracelets, the red cloak, the constant danger, all the cuts and scrapes he must have gotten from robbing tombs and being chased by guards.

"You're the Thief King."

Bakura nodded somberly. He clearly must have thought Marik would go running. When Marik gave him a slow smirk without saying anything else, Bakura frowned.

"You don't look concerned."

Marik tightened his arms around Bakura. "Why should I be? Weren't you the one that said I already had a thing for the Thief King?"

Bakura wrapped his arms around Marik's waist and gave him a deep kiss.

The wind blew again, and the scent of coriander lifted around them. In retrospect, Marik wasn't sure why it mattered so much that he knew what Bakura did. It was an occupation, and yes, it was immoral, but it didn't change how he felt about him.

And it sure as hell didn't change the plan to travel the world with him, either.

THE END

* * *

EPILOGUE

_Isis,_

_I'm doing well. The practice is kicking off and I'm learning new techniques in every city we stop in. I found someone. We're happy, and I have a lot of support for running my medical practice._

_And I should tell you. Word has it that the Thief King moved out of Luxor. Hope this means you won't need to keep looking for him anymore._

_Love,_

_Marik_

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Comments are welcome.


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